Hidden Talents
by callthemoonbeam
Summary: Shelagh teaches Patrick some traditional Scottish dancing.


Patrick, who had managed to run headlong into Phyllis and tread on Patsy's toes, glanced over at his wife: Shelagh, amazingly, leapt and twirled and stepped in all the right directions at all the right times.

"Hey, Mrs. Turner!" Fred chuckled as he swung her around, back into Patrick's arms. Noting with relief the song's end, Patrick gave his wife an extra spin and pulled her aside to catch his breath. She beamed up at him, face pink with excitement and the heat of the bodies swirling around them.

"Wow, Shelagh," He offered her a cup of punch, the sideways look he gave filled with both love and suspicion. "You're good at this. What other talents are you hiding?"

Shelagh shrugged, sipping her drink. "American square dancing is remarkably like ceilidh dancing," she replied, already eyeing the dance floor again.

"You'll have to teach me later," Patrick sighed. "I think I've done enough damage for the evening."

Just then, the door to the community centre flew open. "I've come for the doctor," breathed a panicked young man, and before Shelagh could reply, Patrick was running after him.

Several nights later, Patrick returned from his rounds just in time to tuck Angela up in her crib. Closing the door as quietly as possible, he ruffled Tim's hair in passing and bade his son goodnight. He stopped just short of the lounge, not wanting to rouse Shelagh from her total concentration on whatever was spread out in front of her. A few moments passed in sleepy silence as he watched the back of her head nod along to the words or music inside it, he wasn't sure which.

She turned finally as his footsteps creaked toward her. "Angela's asleep at last. What's got your attention?" he asked, settling beside her on the sofa and resting his chin on her shoulder. "Scottish Country Dances?" He took the record from her, along with a drag of the cigarette she'd snuck from his case.

"I had such fun the other night," Shelagh blushed, "and you mentioned wanting to learn."

"Are you sure you want to risk it?" he raised his eyebrows. "I'm not entirely convinced all the nurses' toes have recovered from my dancing."

She stubbed out the cigarette and rose to offer him her hand. "We'll go slowly, first. No music, while the children are asleep." Patrick caved under her stare and stood with a sigh, allowing her to place his hands: his left clasped tightly in hers, and his right gripping the soft skin of her right elbow and upper arm.

He gamely stumbled through several steps as Shelagh looked earnestly up into his face, periodically checking to make sure he was following along. "Now that's just a basic one," she nodded, finishing the step. "A good place to start."

"Did you go to many dances, before becoming Sister Bernadette?"

"Some," she conceded, allowing him to pull her into him, "when I was a girl." One hand rested low on her back, the other taking hers to kiss in an almost instinctive motion. Shelagh smiled slyly. "I had my first kiss at a ceilidh."

"Mrs. Turner!" Patrick exclaimed, his voice gravelly. "What was it like?"

"Oh, nothing very exciting." She rested her head on his chest, and they swayed lightly. "I was fifteen, and he kissed me outside when the dance was over. Owen MacDonald. And then he ran off with his friends and I went off with mine, and I think it was about a year before we spoke again," she laughed.

"Not very gentlemanly," Patrick frowned, both hands now wrapping themselves low around her hips. "After sneaking a kiss from Shelagh Mannion, a sensible man knows never to let her go," he smirked, leaning in for one himself. "So am I to believe you had ulterior motives for this dance lesson tonight, Mrs. Turner?" he asked, his fingers tickling the back of her neck.

She hummed with pleasure as his lips grazed her collarbone. "Whatever are you suggesting?" Her words came out breathy and unconvincing as her fingers wound themselves through his hair and her hips pressed against his.

"Just wondering what other tricks you have up your sleeve," he said, running a hand up her thigh.

Her back pressed up against the armchair as his mouth sought hers, and, wobbly on her feet, she spun them til he sat back into it, pulling her onto his lap. He pushed up her skirt and she straddled him, savoring the taste of his tongue, the feel of his hands, his lips on hers. Not breaking contact, he pushed off her cardigan and slowly unzipped her dress.

"I may be no good at line dancing," he murmured, helping her out of the bodice. "But I do have other talents to practice." He kissed her shoulder, letting the dress fall open and taking her breast in his mouth. Shelagh rocked her hips against him, feeling him grow beneath her.

"Oh, Patrick," she reached for the zip on his trousers as his hand moved between her legs. He groaned into her chest, her wetness through the thin fabric driving his arousal. Roughly, he pushed off his trousers, impatient with need. Watching as he pushed aside what remained of her clothing and guided her hips to him, she pressed her forehead against his and sunk down, face tense with silent pleasure and the shock of his teeth sharp at her shoulder.

"Yes," she breathed as they rocked together, his thumb against her clitoris, the other hand supporting her hips, "you're very good at this." He choked out a laugh, her hands tight in his hair as she pulled him into a kiss. She let out a strangled cry into his lips, and he felt her falter and shudder in his arms. Gasping, he at last gave in to his own climax.

Patrick caught his breath pressing kisses into her hair while his fingers traced her spine. "You should teach me things more often, my Scottish country girl," he whispered.

Shelagh smiled into his neck. "You know, Patrick," she said, "if you carry me to bed, there's absolutely no chance of you treading on my toes."

He laughed, hoisting her from the armchair. The clothes he'd retrieve later. Perhaps after a bit more practice.


End file.
